The Problem with Stowaways
by Clairose
Summary: Molly Hooper is learning that Sherlock Holmes makes a very poor stowaway-partner-in-crime. Sherlolly fluff, post Series 2 finale. In progress.


Disclaimer: It all belongs to Moffat and Gatiss. Please don't sue!

Note: My friends got me hooked on this show, and I just couldn't get this idea out of my head. Takes place directly after the Series 2 finale. Lemme know your thoughts!

X X X

The Problem with Stowaways

If ever there were to be a word describing Dr. Molly Hooper, it most certainly would not have been adventurous. It would not have been daring, risky or even - dare she think it - _criminal_. She prided herself on taking a cautious and prudent approach in almost every aspect of her life. (Except for that _one_ time when she was briefly dating the world's most dangerous, homicidal psychopath. But it was only three dates and she never kissed him and John assured her that even the most savvy of women would have been hoodwinked by the likes of him, so she really shouldn't hold it against herself, anyway).

What she was doing now, however, defied nearly every adjective that could have previously described her. She could only conclude that. . .well, that she had a weakness for dashing psychopaths. . .or sociopaths.

On second thought, maybe it was better to just say: dashing men in general. And not the sort that caught most women's eyes, either. Molly was very aware of the fact that she was attracted to men who were just as quirky, intelligent (because goddammit, she was a smart cookie) and awkward as herself. And sometimes, she was attracted to men who possessed these qualities in spades.

Men like Sherlock Holmes, who were also rude, overbearing and unforgiving.

But not all the time.

She wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but it probably took the span of a nanosecond that hit with the force of an elephant: she fancied him. So much that it turned her usually quiet demeanor into an even _quieter,_ bumbling persona that could barely utter a coherent syllable. Never mind the fact that she'd received the highest marks in school and was an established pathologist in her own right.

She spent months - nearly a full year - trying to get his attention. It rarely worked. And when it did, it usually yielded disastrous results that led to her blotting her eyes dry in the women's on her lunch breaks and trying to pull herself together again the _next_ time him and his dashing coat tails came swishing in to her lab.

The second part of this whole equation - the day she'd stopped trying to get him to see her - was the day she'd started to see _him_. And not just see but, in his infamously condescending words, _observe_. She had probably been observing him the whole time and it was these subconscious observations that led her to have such a strong infatuation with him. But alas, they had been subconsciously gathered.

It wasn't until John had returned from his third date with Sarah that she realized it the first time. The doctor was beaming and Sherlock's eyes were glued to a microscope. But when John's back was turned, shuffling together some lab reports to take home for the night, and Sherlock pulled away from the microscope - she saw it.

His eyes - sometimes gray, sometimes green, sometimes blue - were sad. He looked crestfallen and at first she'd mistaken it for a quiet sort of jealousy or longing, but then she'd realized, it was sadness wrapped up and disguised by stoicism when everyone else was watching him.

His daily, biting sarcasm and stoic expressions masked what he couldn't hide when he thought no one was looking.

She was fairly certain he wasn't even aware of this. At least not yet. How well could people _really_ see themselves, anyway? She was sure she had looked positively delusional in trying to alter her physical appearance to catch Sherlock's eye. Just like he covered up what few feelings he had with his intelligent wit and condescension.

Observing everyone in the world but himself.

The night he'd turned up in her lab, without John or Lestrade, she knew something was wrong. She knew it immediately. He tried to dissuade her from helping by downplaying who he truly was, all the good he'd done to help others, tried to high light how truly wicked he could be.

But, at that point, it oddly didn't matter. Because his coming to her in a time of need meant she'd finally gotten through to him, like she couldn't get through to her father. And if Sherlock Holmes could be reached. . .it made Molly willing to do anything for him.

Well, _almost_ anything. She wasn't entirely without morals. That, she left up to him.

X X X

"You should've cut your hair."

Molly looked away from the train window and across the compartment to her companion. She reached up to touch her hair were it rested in front of her shoulders, a quizzical look on her face.

"M-my hair?" She said blankly. It was very late and she so wanted to sleep, despite the fact that she was harboring a dead man. . .that fact alone should make her nervous enough to never sleep again.

"Yes, your hair," he repeated, voice hushed. His eyes darted to the compartment door then back to her. "It's a common shade of auburn but the length is rather noticeable on someone so short. . ." he trailed off, and she was fairly certain it had to do with how her face fell at his words.

She sat up a little straighter and resumed looking out at the night sky. There was a short beat of silence before he amended, "I didn't mean that as an insult."

"I know you didn't, Sherlock," she sighed after a moment, her eyes still on the stars.

He paused, and she could see him biting his lip out of the corner of her eye. "Timothy," he corrected.

She nodded, remembering. "Right. Timothy. And I'm. . ."

"Olivia," he supplied helpfully. "Olivia Carlton. For the moment, anyway. These identities will be discovered stolen in the morning, but we should be in Spain by then."

Molly's head snapped in his direction and she blinked. That was a new bit of information. . .he had to still be feeling the after effects of the drugs she'd given him.

"Spain?" She squeaked.

He clucked disapprovingly, as if she'd missed an answer on a quiz. "Come now, Molly. Surely you noticed your English-Spanish dictionary missing from your bookshelf before we left."

Molly sputtered for a moment, her mind trying to comprehend this new information. She was going to Spain. To a foreign country (for the first time in her life, she might add) with a man who had been presumed dead the day before. A man who, two days before, she had never thought could be beaten at his own game by _anyone_ in the world. Let alone a crazy psychopath who she formerly dated. A man whom she had lied for to all his friends (well, okay, just one friend - _maybe_ two) and the police.

She pressed a hand to her forehead, a headache already forming, muttering, "I bought that to impress an exchange student back in med school. Haven't touched it in ages. . ."

When she opened her eyes, Sherlock was leaning forward, a small, white pill in one hand and a bottled water in the other.

"How-?" She began, shaking her head. She took the pill and washed it down quickly. "Thank you."

"You've just broken at least twelve laws and will have broken three more by morning," Sherlock informed her flatly. "A headache was inevitable. . .and understandable. For someone in your situation."

She couldn't help but crack a weak smile at that, and she noticed his shoulders relax a little at her reaction. He sat back against the train seat and nodded towards the window.

"It doesn't hinder our current journey, anyway," he dismissed, but it sounded halfhearted, even to Molly's ears.

He was trying, and she appreciated it. She was also too exhausted from the last forty eight hours to get too worked up at his inadvertent lapse in manners.

She stuffed her jacket into the corner of the train seat and the compartment wall, a makeshift pillow. Sliding down to lie on her side, she tucked the jacket underneath her chin with her hands. It wasn't Buckingham, but it would do.

"What're you doing, Molly?" Sherlock - Timothy, she reminded herself, her husband of just four weeks - asked, his deep voice still hushed.

She couldn't blame him for being on edge, but she was truly exhausted. Before she could answer, she felt her eyes close themselves of their own accord.

"Mmm going to sleep. . ." she mumbled. "Short people can fit on train seats, y'know."

There was a pause, and then she heard him say, as sleep overtook her, "One of their many charming attributes, I'm sure."


End file.
